Harvest Moon

We do and we don’t exist.

I suppose that’s the way you can describe it.

We look out on four horizons at once, and the sun sets in all of them, or the moon rises in all of them, the clouds gather from four directions at once, and blow away again, all parting at once, sinking away into four separate distances. As if we exist on a single point, where there is no north or south, east or west, no distance at all. Just us.

There are other enclaves like ours, I think. At certain high points I think you can see them. Some of the newer arrivals, and some of the old folks, talk of having seen them. But you learn not to go out into the forest – not this part of the forest.

I remember the man who did that. Went out, wanted to find a way all the way out, believed that it was possible – his father came from the outside after all, and he fed his little son on tales of cities and castles, oceans, mountains, things we can never see and simply shouldn’t dream about. I remember the day he came back – just four days after departing.

He stood on the threshold. “Let me in. Please let me in.”

But the villagers gathered with what weapons they could reach for and stood in a line, sharp ends pointing towards him. You could already see the forest inside him, you could see it playing on his skin, poisoning him, eating him. I was only eight years old then, but even I knew, there was no way we could allow him past the threshold.

#

I’m closer to twenty-eight now. That’s how the years have passed.

I grew up here. Born here.

Addathin wasn’t.

He’s one of the incredible ones. He actually survived out there, made his way towards the village. He was confused and ragged when he got there, staring almost blankly at the men and women who blocked his path. “Can somebody please tell me where I am? I’m trying to reach Granittan. Have I taken a wrong turn?”

A wrong turn.

But there was no sign of the forest in him, so we let him cross. It takes longer, sometimes, for it to recognise outsiders.

I was newly widowed, so they gave him to me. Feed and tidy him, tell him what’s happened to him, extinguish any hope he has that he might get back to his world and family. Be blunt. There’s no point in mixing it with honey.

Addathin stared. “What Other Forest?”

“That’s what you call it where you come from. Didn’t you know?”

“I’m from Velloris.”

I raised an eyebrow. Where?

“Far north. The Dragon’s Back.”

Again: Where?

“It’s a mountain range. North of… well, the northern reach of Golwerra.”

I know Golwerra. We are supposedly subject to its kings and laws. Though we could hardly be further from that land in any terms that matter. They risk stepping into our world. And we… it’s hardly likely, but legend has it that we would emerge as monsters.

I explained the forest to him. That he’d stepped across a mystical boundary. The forest he was in right now was steeped in magic, was dangerous, duplicitous, and the part he’d stumbled into right now was some of the worst. As soon as it recognised his humanity, it would sink inside him, filling him with its dead, with its past, eating away at him until he was one with it, poisoned, irredeemable.

“But I have a family.”

“They’re gone. Lost to you.”

“No. They need me.”

“You can’t do them any good.”

“I was going to bring them back an inheritance.”

“Not any more. Listen to me. That’s over.”

“They need me. I have three children.”

He was stubborn. I have no children, so perhaps that’s why I can’t understand. Maybe I would be as wilfully blind to what had become of me in the same situation. Probably I would.

“I’m sorry,” I told him, “but you’ll have to live a different life now.”

Three days later he shared my bed. Two years later he did the same thing. I had no reason to deny him. I felt his pain. He could never let go of that wife, in that other land, those daughters, that little son. They were always in his mind, and I don’t believe he ever truly believed he’d never see them again. No matter which village woman he took in his arms, it could never be the same.

I miss him.  I do.

#

Survival comes at a price. They teach us that when we are very young.

There are four moons. Or one. It all depends on how you look at it. The moons rise in each of the horizons, they travel across the sky until they unite above our heads, framed by stars. The moonlight is bright, it paints the village, the fields, it sinks amongst the trees of the forest, highlighting the monstrousness, tickling out nuggets of beauty that would be lethal if they were touched.

The harvest moon is known by its colour. It reddens, until it is bright red. And that’s when we know that time will condense and then explode. What else can you call what happens?

We gather, tools and seeds in hand, as the moons rise red on all sides. The grisly light reminds us. And we need to be quick.

I reach into the bag, taking out a small twig. My breath is held. I feel it pushing against my ribs. Every year.  One year… I know… eventually…

Addathin didn’t.

My fault. I didn’t tell him.

He was horrified when he first saw it. Puzzled, to begin with. He was sitting next to Hettie Lancroft when the twig in her hand began to grow, when the leaves and budding flowers began to appear. He was enchanted at first, until he saw the horror on her face, the way she dropped the twig on the ground, and looked around her as she tried to see if there were any means of escape.

Her neighbours bound her. She struggled for only the first second. After that her chin just fell to her collarbone, and all she could do was cry quietly.

Addathin grabbed me, “What’s going on?”

“What always goes on. The fields need feeding.”

“What?”

“Listen to me. We have this night, and only this night to plant our crops, grow them, and harvest the results. They won’t grow after tonight. We’ll have to last the year.”

“I’m ready to work.”

“The moon can’t do it alone. The fields need feeding.”

“I don’t…” but then in that moment I think he did.

“It’s the only way.”

“No.”

“Four. Every year. One for each horizon.”

“You’ll run out of people.”

“We are fertile.”

“Your children…”

“Everyone. An equal chance.”

“No,” he started moving towards Hettie.

“Don’t.” I stepped in front of him.

“I’m not going to let them…”

“You are. You will. It’s the only way. You won’t like what happens to you if you interfere.”

I remember the night he was chosen. He’d been with us five years. He stared at his little twig in burgeoning horror. It was growing in both directions, with little green leaves and soft pink buds forming all over it. He looked across the field, over assembled shoulders, meeting my eyes. I’m not sure what was in his – accusation? Did he blame me for what was going to happen? And why me? I’d hosted him in my bed no often than other women, and unlike most of them I’d born him no children. But his eyes were fixed on mine as the two men closest bound his wrists.

A woman and two boys went with him.

You never really believe what you’re going to see will happen. We all stand on the hill, watching. The holes are already dug. Three men take heavy spades and beat the sacrifices to the backs of their heads. No words spoken. I suppose the moment is quick, though not so quick there aren’t screams, sometimes struggling; but the men of the village descend quickly with knives and pitchforks, hacking the bodies. The blood needs to flow. The blood will flow downhill, into the fields; and mixed with the moon it’ll quicken the crops. We’ll grow wheat and vegetables in soil that would otherwise grow only what could kill us. We won’t even know why. We won’t remember who found this out, or how they learnt, or how they lived long enough to learn. The village is over a thousand years old, and it survives.

You can say this of us, we survive.

#

Have I ever thought about it? Walking out into the forest, taking my chances there, seeing what it might make of me, what I might become? We all have. Sometimes I don’t even know what keeps me here. Barren, in a place where the woman drop babies year after year. Some people wonder if I am cursed. I think I’m blessed. Even if my twig one day blossoms, I’ll at least never have to see one of my children draw the dark branch.

Another year. Another reprieve.

I don’t look at the unlucky ones. I know they’re being led away. I pick up my tools and get ready to work the fields.

When the night is over, I’m exhausted – it’s a long night, time both compressed and elongated – but there’s no sleep in me. It’s the same for many. That’s why I go up to the hill, walking, barefoot, hearing the strange melody that sometimes arrives here on the breeze. This grove is terrible. It frightens many. But it’s where our people are. Our ancestors. Sometimes our family. I remember where Addathin was buried. His tree has grown over his grave as they all do. It’s a gnarled and twisted specimen, bent over in places, branches skirting the ground before they shoot up again towards the sky. Its roots run deep, reaching into the depths, below the poison of the forest. When the moon comes it’ll sustain us again, along with its newly minted kin, until it withers, and another human life replaces it.

I sit there, on one of the thick roots, laying my cheek against the sticky surface. I can feel the sap flowing through the bark like blood.

“Can you hear me, Addathin? I don’t know if you can. But if you can, I’m sorry. Maybe if I’d told you sooner, you could have made a different choice. I’m sorry you lost your family. But you’ll always have me.” I come here for him as often as I can. Why? Because I think he’s lonely. Unsettled. Unaccepting of his fate. Perhaps that is why he has grown more crooked than most, why his leaves always seem torn. His branches reach high, and I’m guessing his roots stretch low. He takes up as much space as he can. I think he’ll always be stretching, always reaching out, always trying to connect with that family he lost. Perhaps that’s why I keep coming here, hoping, maybe, that he’ll find them.

Addathin. He was always stubborn.

 

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work